child--one who has given me no more than her _camaraderie_, her
confidence, her friendship, so innocent and so amiable; but these things
are very precious to me, and that is why I cannot lightly speak of them.
You will not understand my words now, but perhaps some day it may be my
privilege to teach you their signification."

He stopped. Chris was gazing at him in amazement, her young face deeply
flushed.

"Do you mean me?" she asked at last. "You didn't--you couldn't--fight on
my account!"

He made her a grave bow. "I have told you," he said, "because otherwise
you would have thought ill of me. Now, with your permission, since there
is no more to say upon the subject, I will return to my friends."

He would have left her with the words, but she put out an impulsive hand.
"But, Bertie--"

He took the hand, looking straight into her eyes, all his formality
vanished at a breath. "Ask me no more, little one," he said. "You have
asked too much already. But you do not understand. Some day I will
explain all. Run home to _Mademoiselle la gouvernante_ now, and forget
all this. To-morrow we will play again together on the shore, draw the
pictures that you love, and weave anew our rope of sand."

He smiled as he said it, but the tenderness of his speech went deep into
the girl's heart. She suffered him to take leave of her almost in
silence. Those words of his had set vibrating in her some chord of
womanhood that none had ever touched before. It was true that she did not